


Reunited

by Mellie_Art



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Reconciliation, Sort Of, minor fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-13 16:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21172889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellie_Art/pseuds/Mellie_Art
Summary: The reunion John and Des deserve





	Reunited

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am extremely late to this party but that so called “reunion” between John and Des was BS and left me with a lot of feelings, so many in fact that this fic turned out to be three times longer than planned!

“No - but you don’t - you people these days, you think you know...but you don’t  _ know _ , y’know? Back then, we really were  _ fightin’ _ for somethin’ - a  _ cause _ . We were -”

John has no idea who the man next to him is. Late fifties to sixties, dressed in old leather and denim with a nose that’s seen a few breaks in its time, he’d taken the seat beside John hours ago and hasn’t stopped talking since. John politely nodded along at first but when the conversation turned to punk rock he was happy to engage - sort of. But what the hell they're talking about now is anyone’s guess. John lost track a few drinks ago. 

His nights have been this way for the past couple of months. After Neron, he needed a fucking break, so he left the Waverider with a vague half-promise to return if the Legends needed him and went on a binge of sex and alcohol that has yet to show any sign of slowing down. 

Speaking of which, he’s only made it to the alcohol part so far tonight and, as pleasant as present company may be, it’s not the sort he’s looking for. So he stands and gives his new friend a pat on the back and tells him to take it easy before leaving the bar and heading, well, wherever his feet and the night take him.

-*-*-*-

It’s gone four a.m by the time he stumbles into his hotel room, having taken a very,  _ very _ “scenic” route back. He throws his coat somewhere, his tie somewhere else and collapses onto the bed to immediately fall into drunken oblivion.

-*-*-*-

When he wakes up, its to a thudding in his skull so loud he wonders if it hasn’t, in fact, literally split open. John’s no stranger to hangovers but he can tell this’ll be one for the record books. He (sort of) opens his eyes and regrets it immediately when he’s blinded by the thin line of sunlight shining through the gap where the curtains haven’t quite met in the middle and mumbles a string of curses into his pillow as he pulls the sheet over his head.

It seems to work, the thudding stops at least, and John feels himself drifting off when it starts up again. Except it doesn’t seem to be coming from inside his head this time. 

With a grunt, John pulls the sheet down and tries to figure out which direction the noise is coming from. 

The door.

John’s stomach doesn’t so much sink as it does hurtle to the ground. He’d hoped to have more time. For a group of people who unironically call themselves  _ Legends _ they should be able to survive without him for longer than this. He isn’t with it enough to wonder how they might’ve found him.

The knocking stops and John closes his eyes once more, hoping his silence might’ve given them a hint. It doesn’t. The knocking starts up  _ yet again _ , and John, whose patience with the world at large could be described as paper thin at the best of times, yells, “PISS OFF!”

He expects any reply to come in that harsh, authoritative tone of a certain Captain Lance.

But what he gets instead is a deep southern drawl that makes him feel as if he’s been punched in the gut. His mind blacks out for a second and when it reboots, John wonders if he imagined it. 

“John?”

No, he didn’t. And like a bucket of ice cold water poured over his head, it sobers him up just enough to drag himself off the bed and stumble over to the door. He doesn’t open the door yet, just presses his palms flat against it as he summons up the courage to peer through the peephole. Never hurts to double check, not with the state his head’s in (because this wouldn’t be the first time he’s sworn he heard that voice calling his name).

He looks through and...yep, its him. It’s definitely,  _ definitely  _ him.

John’s heart, which was already pounding, beats even faster, doing absolutely nothing for his hangover. He presses his forehead to the door, blissfully cool against his overheated skin and closes his eyes, breathing once, twice, three times to chase away the nausea. A voice in his head tells him this is a bad idea, that if he opens this door, both physically and metaphorically, it’ll only end up getting shut in his face again and he’s not sure he can take it a second time. But it’s a small voice, one John’s used to ignoring, so he grips the handle tight and, with a final breath, opens it to come face to face with -

“Des?”

_ Jesus _ . Somehow John sounds even rougher than he feels.

Des, however, looks and sounds every bit as wonderful as John remembers, beautiful in a way that makes John ache all over. There’s a long, heavy pause as they both stand there, looking at each other and it’s not until Des pulls one of his hands out of his pockets to scratch his chin that John realises he’s been gawping. He should probably do something. Like...let him the fuck in.

John steps back, his grip on the handle so tight his knuckles turn white. He can’t imagine why Des is here or how he found him and  _ fucking hell _ the room stinks of fags and booze and John’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes and he’s pretty sure that’s a come stain on his trouser leg and -

“Is this a bad time?”

Isn’t it always?

Finally letting go of the door handle, John pushes it closed and attempts to straighten himself out. Not that it helps.

“No...no it’s fine. It’s...uh, yeah, it’s fine.”

He’s not sober enough for this.

Des gives him a look before nodding and looking around the small hotel room that’s almost as much of a mess as its occupant. 

John doesn’t know what to do or say next. It’s not often he feels this awkward but facing the love of your life who you sent to Hell and broke time to bring back only for them to say they want nothing more to do with you can do that to a person. 

“Uhh, drink?” he eventually asks, walking over to the kettle on a small table by the window. “Only got coffee, if that’s alright. Have a seat.”

It’s a choice between a ratty old chair or the bed. Des chooses the chair. A wise decision. 

As John prepares the drinks - white and two sugars for Des, black for himself - his eyes stray repeatedly to the man he never thought he’d see again. Their breakup had been pretty definite. John thought about visiting him, maybe explain himself, and almost did once but, in the end, figured it’d probably only make things worse. Des was better off without him. A lot less chance of ending up in Hell again, anyway. 

“Your friends told me where to find you,” Des explains, hunched over, gaze fixed on his clasped hands.

By  _ friends _ , John assumes he means the Legends. Fucking Sara and her fucking tracking chips. He’s going to find it and, when he next sees her, shove it right up her -

“John?”

John blinks himself back into the room to find honey brown eyes watching him, concerned. He, as the old cliche goes, could happily drown in those eyes.

“Yeah, sorry…” John says and finishes the drinks. He hands one of the cups to Des and tries to ignore the jolt of electricity that runs along his entire arm from where their fingertips ghost across each other. 

_ Fucking hell _ .

Perching on the edge of the bed, John takes a sip of coffee, welcoming the burn as it runs down his throat. It takes several more before he starts to feel anywhere close to human.

Des, however, hasn’t touched his, staring into his cup as if it holds all the answers. 

Heart still pounding, John leans forward. “Des?”

“I don’t have a right to come here like this,” Des begins, still staring at his coffee. “I know that. I just…”

Des shakes his head and runs a hand down his face before he sits back and finally looks at John. And it’s then that the rose tinted lenses crack and John starts to actually see the man in front of him. There are lines on Des’s face that he didn’t wear before, etched deep into the skin, heavy shadows circling his eyes and he looks drained, shoulders hunched and tight as if the weight he’s carrying might break his back at any moment. 

John’s time in Hell was brief and he’d had a lifetime to prepare for it. Des, on the other hand...

Everything in John pushes him to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness, tell Des over and over that he’s sorry, that he’ll do, give anything he can to make it better. It’s only the knowledge that it’s far too little too late that holds John in place. That, and he doesn’t want to scare him away.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

Those words, spoken softly, do something to John that he can’t deal with right now, so he pushes them aside and says, “What do you need?”

For a long moment, Des doesn’t reply and looks John dead in the eye. John has no idea what he’s looking for or if he finds it but when those eyes turn away, he’s torn between wanting to pull them back to him and relief that he’s escaped their scrutiny.

Des takes a deep breath and his grip on the cup tightens, as if he’s bracing himself.

“I keep seeing things. Like...like visions or ghosts or something, in the corner of my eye, when I close my eyes. At night, the shadows, I feel them move and when I look there’s nothing there but I can  _ feel _ them, y’know? Like I’m being watched. And there are voices, too, whispers by my ear or - or just like someone's nearby, breathing. It’s -” 

Des stops and shakes his head. “I don’t know, I think I’m going crazy. They just feel so  _ real _ . And the nightmares...I haven’t slept for weeks.”

Again, Des stops, and there’s a slight hitch in his breath as he exhales. He pinches the bridge of his nose and when he speaks again, his voice isn’t quite as steady as before.

“I don’t wanna go back, John.”

The look in Des’s eyes is something John never wants to see again. And his self-loathing reaches new heights for being the one to put it there. 

He leans even further forward, barely balanced on the edge of the bed now and he only just resists the urge to take Des’s hand. 

“You’re not,” John says, voice quiet but firm. “Neron’s gone for good, I saw to it myself. He can’t get you anymore and, unless you’ve been making deals with other demons since then, no one else can, either. I promise.”

John’s promises have a history of meaning jack shit but this one he knows he can keep. 

“You were down there a long time, Des. It’s gonna leave a mark. But, from what I can see, you’re doing pretty well, considering. There are people who’ve ended up much worse after going through a lot less. It’ll take time but it  _ will  _ get better.”

John pauses, unsure whether to make the offer he’s about to, but Des came to  _ him _ , so…

“Look, it’s not much but there are some things that can help. Some protection spells or wards, I can even brew some tea to help you sleep if you like. It won’t stop it completely but you’ll get a decent night’s kip, at least.”

Des doesn’t look entirely convinced and John can’t blame him. Magic got him into this mess, after all. But eventually Des nods and some of the tension in his shoulders eases and John can’t stop the corners of his lips curving up into the ghost of a smile. 

“Alright. When do you -”

“How about now?”

John blinks, surprised by the sudden enthusiasm. “Err, sure. Yeah.” 

Luckily, he doesn’t have any plans but even if he did, he'd drop all of them for Des.

“Just...uh...gimme twenty minutes to clean up and get my things together, yeah? Help yourself to more coffee.”

John stands and tries not to look too flustered as he searches for clean clothes and then disappears into the bathroom for a much needed shower, hoping the hot water will wash away the filth of last night and, if he’s lucky, the rest of his hangover. It doesn’t quite succeed with the hangover but he feels a hell of a lot more with it than before.

Des is already on his feet when John leaves the bathroom, coffee barely touched, and as John rushes around to grab whatever he thinks he’ll need, Des makes his way to the door. He’s eager to get this over and done with, apparently. John tries not to take it personally but fails. And as the hotel room door swings shut, he can already feel the metaphorical one waiting to follow suit.

-*-*-*-

It’s a four hour drive from John’s hotel to New Orleans. He likes to pretend it’s pure coincidence that brought his aimless wanderings this way but there’s no point when the real reason is sitting next to him. Des might not have wanted anything more to do with him but John couldn’t resist the pull.

But thinking about that sort of thing when Des is only an arm’s reach away isn’t going to be helpful, so John sticks his business brain back on and they talk some more about the visions. Des doesn’t have much more to offer than he’s already said but it passes the time - some of it anyway. They’re still left with over two hours of silence that neither of them is able to fill. 

It wasn’t so long ago that John could only dream of a moment like this, having Des living, breathing and whole beside him. He’d always thought that if that moment came he’d have a million things to say but, well, apparently not.

He also thought he’d want to make the most of every second he could get with Des but by the time they arrive, he’s so eager to get out of the car that he trips and nearly lands face first on the ground. Des doesn’t say anything, thank god. John would rather not have to explain how he’s spent the last hour fighting the urge to smash his head against the car window. 

It’s an urge that comes back even stronger as soon as John steps inside the apartment. He’s hit by a barrage of memories, some good, some bad, all very painful, spinning in his head as the inevitable comparisons between this place and the old one begin. This place is a lot smaller, which makes sense even as the thought of Des rebuilding a life without him cuts John somewhere tender and deep. It’s also a lot colder here but as John stops in the middle of the lounge he realises it has nothing to do with the temperature. The place they shared was a  _ home _ , full of energy and life, but this feels almost like an empty shell, a roof over his head and nothing more.

Looking at the boxes everywhere, it’d be fair to assume that Des just hasn’t had chance to settle in yet but, looking at him, John doesn’t think that’s it. But he doesn’t say a word about it, just puts his bag on the sofa and shrugs off his coat as the weight that’s settled in his chest gets heavier.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat and rolling up his sleeves. “Are the visions stronger anywhere in particular or is it just…”

He spreads his arms out, gesturing to the entire apartment.

“The bedroom, I think,” Des replies after a beat. “But...they happen everywhere.”

His eyes are circling the lounge as he says it, as if talking about it might summon one. 

John rummages in his bag and pulls out a small knife. 

“I’ll start with the bedroom, then.” The smile he offers Des is small and almost genuine.

John doesn’t do anything elaborate, just a few spells as promised, carving symbols of protection on the outside of the bedroom door, along the skirting board and in the wall just above the bed. Des comes to watch and John can see a difference already. His shoulders have relaxed a little and the shadows around his eyes might even be a bit brighter. John ignores the little kick in his stomach and moves onto the next room. 

The whole apartment gets the same treatment, from bedroom through to the kitchenette. John takes his time, partly to do the job properly but mostly to drag out his time with Des, and it doesn’t escape his notice that Des is never more than a few feet away, watching. It could be curiosity. Or maybe -

No, best not go there. John’s a last resort, nothing more. But knowing that still isn’t enough to stop him wishing.

John finishes by carving a small symbol into the front door. It’s overkill, as soon as he entered the apartment John could tell there weren’t any spirits here, but doing this makes Des feel better and that’s all that matters.

“That should do it,” he says, dropping his knife back into his bag before pulling out a few small bags of leaves and herbs. “You still interested in that tea?”

Des, who’s busy inspecting John’s work on the door, looks over his shoulder at him and nods.

“Don’t s’pose you’ve got a pestle and mortar anywhere…”

He’s sure he remembers Des owning one at some point. If not John can improvise.

“Uhh…” Des looks over at the boxes and heads towards one labelled “ _ kitchen _ ”.

(After Des’s...well, after  _ that _ , John couldn’t bring himself to throw anything away so he put Des’s stuff into storage and the fact that he organised everything and even  _ labelled _ the fucking boxes says more about how deeply John’s feelings run than any words could. John Constantine doesn’t label boxes for just anyone.)

It takes a while and John’s about to tell Des to forget it when Des holds up a grey marble pestle and mortar and hands it over. 

Their fingers meet for a second time and John wonders if Des feels the jolt of electricity too. 

There’s not a lot to the tea, just the leaves and herbs ground together, along with a quick incantation to increase the effects. One cup of this and Des should be out like a light. 

“This’ll keep for a good time in a jar,” John says when he’s finished. “Brew it like any homemade tea but it’s strong so I’d stick to one cup a day, two if you  _ really  _ need it.”

Which Des might by the looks of him. In fact…

“I’ll make you one now if you like. A weak one. It’ll help you relax.”

Des looks at the tea, picking some of the mixture up and rubbing it between his fingers. He’s thinking and John suspects it’s about more than just tea.

Eventually he drops the leaves and reaches for a cup, his way of saying yes. And then he says, “Hungry?”

John expected to be kicked out as soon as he was done so this is a surprise, but in no way unwelcome. He doesn’t have to consider it for very long. As if his answer would be anything other than yes.

Des looks over at the boxes. It’s clear cooking hasn’t been a priority for him lately and as John watches him he can no longer ignore the weight loss. Not a huge amount but enough to be noticeable from certain angles. 

_ God _ , if John had known how badly this would affect him he never would’ve let Des walk away.

“It’ll have to be takeout.”

That’s fine with John.

-*-*-*-

They’re halfway through the food and John is finally starting to relax - until Des decides to ruin it. 

“I...I wanna say sorry.”

John, who’s about to shovel another forkful of noodles into his mouth, lets them drop back into the carton. They’re on opposite ends of the sofa but it feels as though the room has suddenly shrunk. “Des, you don’t -”

“No, please, Johnny, let me finish.”

If nothing else, hearing  _ that name  _ is enough to stun John into silence. 

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened, haven’t really had anything else to do, and what I said...I was angry, y’know? I meant it at the time but - but it’s not that easy and I know that. As much as I wanted to, and I know you would’ve let me, I can’t lay all the blame on you. We  _ both _ made choices, mistakes…”

Des sighs and rubs a hand across his face. “We both really fucked up.”

That’s putting it mildly, John thinks, but he nods. He’s afraid to ask what Des might consider the mistakes.

“I spoke to them,” Des continues. “Your friends - the Legends?”

John can feel his skin start to prickle and his heart race. He dreads to think what they told him. John was (still is) such a mess, he even poured his miserable heart out to Zari in both her human and cat forms, but perhaps he can claim temporary insanity on that part. He was holding multiple timelines in his head at the time, after all.

“They told me what you did.” And something close to a smile touches Des’s lips. “I can’t believe you actually broke time. I didn’t know that was possible.”

“Neither did I until I did it,” John says and his laugh comes out as a snort but there’s no humour in it. The agony he felt at that time, having failed despite his efforts, is still far too fresh in his mind. 

“You didn’t quit on me.”

John almost drops his food onto the floor and meets Des’s eyes, searching them. He can’t possibly remember that. John wiped his memory, there’s  _ no way _ …

Des seems to understand. “My head’s been a mess ever since I came back. Memories all over the place and with the nightmares and the ghosts or visions or whatever they are I couldn’t tell what was real. I remember  _ you _ but I couldn’t trust it until one of the Legends, the British one - I can’t remember her name - told me what you did. And that’s how I knew  _ that  _ memory was real. You were there and you said that and…”

He shrugs in a way that says the rest is recent history and if John hadn’t been left so hollow by it all, he’d be a sobbing mess on the floor right now. He has no idea why that memory stuck with Des but the fact that it did...John can’t put it into words. 

“I’m not saying all’s forgiven, this isn’t something you just  _ get over _ , right? But I know it’s not black and white, either.”

Des leans in and reaches for John’s hand, looking him up and down and John forgets how to breathe.

“And I know you’ve got a thing for self-flagellation so, please, whatever you’ve been doing to punish yourself, stop.”

John can’t think of a single thing to say to that and the room falls quiet.

And if the evening had ended there, it would have been perfect. But this is John who’s never knowingly let a perfect moment go unruined and he isn’t sure how it happens but one minute they’re on opposite ends of the sofa and the next he’s pressing their mouths together. The contact is brief and John pulls back the second his brain catches up with him and he buries his face in his hands, wondering if the floor’ll swallow him if he wills it hard enough.

“Fucking hell!” he groans. “Des, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -”

He doesn’t get to finish. Des’s mouth is on his again and he’s kissing John the way John’s dreamt he would ever since he came back. There are fingers in his hair and an arm sliding around his waist and even though that voice in the back of John’s mind is screaming at him to stop, he doesn’t listen, wraps his arms around Des’s neck and kisses back with everything he has. 

It’s messy and desperate and, oh  _ god _ , fucking incredible and John can hardly believe its real. But the heat of Des’s lips and the taste of his tongue tell him that it is - imagination could never match the real thing - and he’s pushing his hand under Des’s collar when he feels a shudder run through Des’s whole body. It happens again, and again and through the haze John realises that something’s wrong. He breaks the kiss and Des buries his face into John’s neck as his shoulders start to shake and he lets out a small choked sound, the first of his tears touching John’s skin.

John adjusts his hold, pulling him even closer and Des tightens his grip in response. The brief euphoria John felt during the kiss is now replaced with wretchedness and all he can do is hold on and say he’s sorry over and over again. Sorry for the kiss, for sending him to hell, for inserting himself into Des’s life in the first place. 

He shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have even opened his door. He should have stayed in bed to wallow in his own filth and self pity. That way he wouldn’t have been able to hurt Des  _ yet again _ .

Hindsight’s a wonderful thing, innit?

Des’s tears fall for a long time - he's been through more than he ever deserved - and John holds him throughout, grip never loosening even when the tears start to subside. Des doesn’t let go either and as he runs his palm up and down Des’s back and combs his fingers through Des’s curls, John closes his eyes and listens to their breathing synchronise. In and out, in and out, gradually slowing down and growing steadier as Des’s sobs finally reach their end. 

And even then, neither one of them lets the other go. 

For John it’s fear. This moment is all he has left and as soon as it’s over, that’s it. The end. And he doesn’t want it to. Selfish, yes, but that’s right on form for John.

But it  _ has  _ to end and as Des releases his grip on John’s shirt, John’s forced to concede that it’s a good thing because he’s in danger of saying or doing something else very, very stupid. And they’ve got enough to deal with as it is.

Des doesn’t move back to his seat, though. He stays close, so close their foreheads could touch if John leaned forward maybe an inch? And it takes every ounce of willpower not to take Des’s face in his hands and wipe the tears away for him. 

He resists -  _ just  _ \- and gives Des all the time he needs - but if Des could hurry up and say something soon, that’d be great because if his heart rate’s anything to go by, John’s pretty sure he’s moments away from an aneurysm.

The first sound to come out of Des’s mouth is a weak, unsteady laugh before he lets out a long, exhausted sigh and says, “We’ve got some shit to figure out, huh?”

And then it’s John’s turn to laugh because what else can he say?

He should probably leave though. They can do the figuring out when they’re both feeling less...raw.

John moves to stand when Des reaches for his hand again. 

“You can stay,” he says and after a pause adds, “If you want.”

John does want, more than Des could possibly know, with every fibre of his being. He manages to restrain himself by waiting for a full minute before nodding. 

Des gives John’s hand a gentle squeeze and then leans back, almost melting into the sofa as he runs a hand through his hair. It says a lot that despite having even run his own fingers through it, John’s only just properly noticed how long its gotten - for Des, anyway.

“You should get some sleep. It’s early, I know, but you need it. I’ll make you a cup and we can, y’know, talk and stuff tomorrow.”

Des doesn’t reply but he doesn’t stop John moving this time, either. 

The tea John makes is much stronger than the last, perhaps a bit too strong for most but it’ll do Des some good. In fact, he only manages to drink half the cup before he starts dozing off. John carefully takes the cup from him and orders him to bed. With the tea and the spells and markings in place, Des should finally get the sleep he so desperately needs. 

John doesn’t go to sleep himself. The first thing he needs after an evening like this is a fucking cigarette - or three. Let the night air and nicotine soothe his frazzled nerves. It works to a point but John knows he’s going to be on edge until they talk things through.

Still, there’s hope. Isn’t there? Even after... _ that _ Des wants him to stay. John isn’t expecting them to get married or anything but at the very least they could end up as friends. John would like that. Des has always been a steadying force and lord knows John doesn’t have nearly enough of that in his life.

Finishing his cigarette, John drops the end to the ground and puts it out with his foot before heading back inside.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like this needs another chapter although I can’t say when that’ll happen right now.


End file.
